Nuance
by KamikazeCreamPuff
Summary: Fact speaks for itself. And, as Sherlock knows full well, whenever one talks of facts, the nuances make all the difference. John/Sherlock genfic, rated PG for some mild language


**A Particularly Ranty A/N:** Whenever something in fandom bothers me I tend to write a fic that more-or-less states what my problem with that fandom is. In this case, my problem is that I'm a HUGE John/Sherlock fan, but I don't like all these shipping fics that have them hugging and kissing and being snuggly. I understand that it's cute and romantic and that's what lovers_ do_, but what's so _great_ about John and Sherlock is that they _aren't_ a couple. They're a _pair._ A _matched set._ And having them be all huggy-kissy-snuggly is, frankly, writing them completely OOC no matter HOW great the dialogue is, ESPECIALLY in Sherlock's case. That man is not in denial, or being coy, or playing hard-to-get, or even aloof. Sherlock is Sherlock. Plain and simple. And he is NOT NORMAL so you can't just treat him like a normal person with snarky dialogue.

Plus, once I got in Sherlock's head I just started having fun. He is SO easy for me to write. XP LAWL?

Ignore me. -_-;;

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Sherlock is not built for affection. So whether or not he's a homosexual is completely irrelevant.

He wasn't exaggerating for "kidding" in any way when he told John that he was married to his work. Sherlock is an obsessive. It's no secret. Sherlock is so wrapped up in a personal need to _know_, to _find_, to _solve_, that he is, quite literally, not built for all the things that relationships, romantic and non-, require. Besides, saying he isn't good at relationships isn't modesty. Fact speaks for itself. And, as Sherlock knows full well, whenever one talks of facts, the _nuances_ make all the difference.

Relationships require perception. Sherlock prefers observation. Relationships require consideration. Sherlock prefers thinking. Relationships require cooperation and compassion. Sherlock has no need for either of those things. (Some people think this his most inhumane quality, but that is an unnecessarily emotional perspective on the matter. He has no need for other peoples' supplementary thought processes to a level that would necessitate cooperating with them, and people who _need_ him _come_ to him requesting aid, thus rendering an _offer_ of his expertise not only unnecessary but downright laughable. Sherlock's life is very simple, really. He doesn't understand other peoples' compulsion to _complicate_ things so much with all these unnecessary considerations. He figures it must be because their lives are so dull in all other respects.)

So no, Sherlock is not built for affection.

But, as an obsessive, he is most certainly built for an unequivocal level of _attachment_.

It doesn't happen often. For example, Sherlock would not consider himself particularly attached to any of his _belongings_ the way that most people are — he holds no sentimental value for things like plates or furniture, especially since almost everything in his flat has been purchased to replace something else that was destroyed in an experiment or impromptu brawl. Still, a mind like his requires some staples, some… constants. Nicotine. The skull on his mantelpiece. His violin.

Now attachment, naturally, begins with an acquisition. Acquisition comes easily to Sherlock — he makes acquaintances as he needs them and then moves on. He needed a roommate. One showed up. After that it does get, admittedly, a bit fuzzy, and there's nothing Sherlock dislikes more than _fuzzy._ Everything has a reason, every thought has an origin, and certainly there must have been an origin for his strange attachment to John Watson. At some point between putting his gloves on and hoping to have a good medical examiner on the scene instead of Anderson, the tosser, and hearing his new acquaintance bellow "DAMN MY LEG," immediately followed by a very quick, very contrite but somehow also subtly sarcastic, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry", Sherlock considered that a medical examiner in the army, good with bodies and gore, frustration with boredom, a face that would blend in any crowd, yes. And the game was on.

The fact that he'd complimented Sherlock's deductions on the cab ride over was just a bonus.

But that wasn't _attachment_, Sherlock knew. Nuances, facts were all about the nuances, and that exchange between himself and John had just marked a shift from an acquaintance to a tool, in the same way that his violin had become a tool he used to provoke thought. He _had_ a roommate. He'd _needed_ a medical examiner who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, evidence contamination be damned. (After all, if one just looks at the evidence _properly_ it doesn't _matter_ whether or not it's been disturbed, and besides which the only reason police are so protective against contamination is because tests and samples are the only tool they can depend on, as they are so woefully insufficient in all other capacities. Really, it's a miracle they get anything done, ever.)

Carrying the model further, that was what marked a shift from tool to attachment — need. More than need, _dependence_. The filling of a role that cannot be substituted. It was something Sherlock tried to avoid at all costs, but for an obsessive, there can come a time when the mind is unable to let a certain thing go no matter how good or bad the end result might be. And, as with everything, Sherlock had deduced the moment of what that shift had been concerning John Watson. Still, it was only something he cared to think about during those occasions of being awake for over 48 consecutive hours with his mind humming and half-delirious. Even then, on those occasions, he only cared to think about it peripherally, much like the way one examines a burning sun.

He was going to take that pill. He'd lied, when John had asked him about it later. It had not been logical, admittedly. But deep, deep in the periphery of his self-awareness, he knows that without John's intervention on his behalf, he would have done it.

(He would have been fine, he knows, because he nicked the pill off the floor and experimented with it when he returned to his flat and it _had_, in fact, been the correct one. But he had to _know. _Sherlock _hated_ fuzzy endings.)

So that was it. The conclusive facts, laid bare for Sherlock and only Sherlock to see. Every day, John saved Sherlock from himself. As such, he fulfilled a role that could not be substituted, and was thus by Sherlock's own definition a need. But the knowledge was irrelevant to Sherlock's everyday work, so he filed it in his head with the other extraneous facts and continued as normal. He had his nicotine patches. The skull on his mantelpiece. His violin. John.

And then one day John was getting all worked up over something. Sherlock let his voice float around the flat uninterrupted, not listening as he carefully added measured amounts of citric acid to a row of beakers, each one holding a right index finger that corresponded to a different racial background. As he waited for one of the beakers to start bubbling or do _anything_ interesting, he let a few of the words sink in.

Ah. Sarah. They'd had a fight. How dull. Sherlock straightened up to his full height and reached for his cup of tea. Hm. Cold now.

"I need more tea," he called out, the end of his sentence trailing off as the Chinese fingernail suddenly detached and floated to the surface of the beaker. Interesting.

"Haven't you been listening to a word I've said?" John replied, poking his head into the kitchen with a cross expression. "No, nevermind, of course you haven't." He sighed and grabbed Sherlock's mug, pouring out the tea and placing it in their dishwasher.

"I said I wanted _more_ tea," Sherlock said, writing observations in his notebook without taking his eyes off the beaker. Karatin proteins in the nails. Perhaps weaker amongst the Chinese. He should try to get a sample of their hair, maybe apply some supplements.

"I'm not your servant. Besides, it would just get cold again before you got around to it."

"There is a distinct probability of that happening, yes." Sherlock's eyes flickered toward John's still-cloudy expression. "You're still cross."

"No shit, Sherlock," John said with no trace of irony, turning away with his mouth twisted in irritation. "But what was I thinking… _advice_? Girls aren't your _area_," he repeated the words with a distinct bite of sarcasm and a subtle edge of challenge that turned Sherlock's head.

Taking a moment, Sherlock thought back to John's voice floating around the flat five minutes ago and pieced the sounds together. "You fought because you weren't ready to tell her you love her," he recalled. John looked at him askance.

"So you _were_ paying attention," he grumbled. Sherlock didn't bother to correct him. He _hadn't_ been paying attention, per se, just being _aware_ and putting together the facts retroactively. Nuance.

Regardless, Sherlock turned back to his beakers. "I don't do 'love'," he said. "It's _also_ not my area."

John snorted derisively and ran an errant hand through his hair. "See, if it were anyone else saying that, I'd say that was impossible. But, you know, _you…_"

"What?" Sherlock asked, possibly feeling affronted.

"Well…" John shrugged. "You tend to do the impossible."

Sherlock allowed himself a thin little smile before returning to his work. The citric acid in the American's beaker had just turned a darker color than the others'. Fascinating.

"Yes. Well. I don't do love, but I have an obsessive nature and I _do_ become attached to things, which some people might _call_ love, as my attachments fulfill a need that can't be assuaged by anything else and, as such, create a dependence. Like the way I _need_ my nicotine and I _need_ my violin, so do I _need_ you and so thus I am attached to you."

There was a moment of silence following this statement. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock took note of John's clear bewilderment. "Are you saying that you _love_ me?"

"No, John," Sherlock corrected, impatient with this line of conversation. "I'm saying that I _need_ you. Really," he huffed, picking up the beaker and holding it closer to his face to better see inside. "I would hope you'd be able to see the distinction."

"And what if I _don't?_"

"Then perhaps that is why Sarah is mad at you."

There was another beat of silence as John processed this.

"I think you just said that so you could _sound_ wise, when really you have no idea how to give me advice on this."

"Possibly," Sherlock conceded. "John, hold this beaker for me and describe its contents…"

And so the day passed. He had his nicotine. He had his skull on the mantelpiece. He had his violin. And he had John. So Sherlock's life remained more or less constant.

If, perhaps, a bit more nuanced.

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End file.
